“What did you expect?” he snaps. “You can’t have it both ways.” He reaches for my hand again, this time almost dragging me along behind him. “If you want to make an omelette, you’ve got to smash a few eggs.”
The man has no compassion.
And I have few scruples.
And I’m so gonna put a peacock in his room before I leave. Somehow.
“Holly!” As we round a corner, Archie launches himself at me, wrapping his arms around my waist.
“Hey, friend!”
“Mummy says you’re leaving us, but I told her I’m going to lock you in a cupboard.”
“That sounds scary.”
“No, you can live there like a secret Harry Potter. Uncle Sandy broke his laptop this morning,” he then adds randomly.
“It looked like it was working this morning.” Griffin sounds smug. Was that when he went to tell—
Oh, man.
“Do you like crabs?” the kid asks next, his attention swinging to Griffin.
“Crabs are clawsome,” he answers without missing a beat.
Hugh gives a little belly laugh as though the joke caught him off guard.
“Why do you ask? You haven’t put one in my bed, have you?”
“No!” Archie laughs again. “That’s what’s for dinner.”
The boy runs off giggling while I hold up my hand for Griffin to high five.
“Good response!” I don’t know why I’m surprised he’s good with kids, but I am.
“We’re on the same wavelength, obviously.” Griffin tries to curtail his shy smile as his hand meets mine.
“Wasn’t gonna say it.” Then his fingers slide between mine, and we’re suddenly holding hands again.
“Do you like kids?”
“I couldn’t eat a whole one,” he quips. “I’ve got a nephew.” I almost correct him by pointing out he has two when he speaks again. “Mo. I’ve told my sister it’s a ridiculous name, but he’s too old to change it now. I mean, who calls their kid Montague?”
“There are worse names,” I reply. Wow. He really doesn’t see himself as part of this family. That’s probably why he doesn’t feel bad about what we’re doing. Not sure how that theory correlates to me because I’m obviously not related to this bunch, yet I feel pretty wretched right now.
Buck up, buttercup, I tell myself. This is what you need to do to make sure you leave at the end of next week with your heart still intact.
We follow in Archie’s footsteps, turning a corner into the family’s quarters. This is a much less historic part of the castle, but still very grand. High ceilings and Georgian panelled walls, the fireplace is black marble and the sofas pale. It’s quite an opulent space but less fussy and a touch more masculine, I think. And then I remember why. Or rather, I become aware why as I lift my gaze.
Alexander lounges on a chair by the unlit fire, the table lamp behind him casting a golden glow to his hair. Golden and glowering, I think as my feet grind to a halt and a flight of vicious birds swoops through my insides.
“Come on.” Griffin swaps my hand for an arm around my shoulder, maybe discerning my sudden distress. “Whatcha, Al.”
I assume the ridiculous fake-cockney accent he uses must be to get under Alexander’s skin. Not that he seems to pay him any mind with his energy focussed on me. And not pleasantly.
“Hello, Alexander,” I murmur through what feels like bloodless lips.
“Holly.” Those horror birds swoop to my throat. So I guess I’m Holly now. Why does that make me want to cry as Alexander inclines his head, tilting the glass in his hand as though in a toast?
But what is he toasting? My new relationship?
Unlikely.
“What are you drinking?” Griffin asks, his arm slipping from my shoulder.
So much for solidarity. I didn’t realise I was one of the eggs we were breaking.
“Ah, the good stuff,” the eggbeater says approvingly, picking up a bottle from a black lacquered drinks cabinet in a chinoiserie style.
“Holly!” This time, my name is delivered in a much warmer tone as Isla glides across the room to greet me as though we’re old friends. Her hands tender against my elbows, she presses a kiss to my left cheek. “He’s in a terrible mood,” she whispers, changing cheeks as I lightly pucker my lips to make the appropriate and according response. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” she adds in a low tone as she pulls away.
I’m not so sure anymore.
Standing by myself, I suddenly feel adrift, like I’m floating in a sea of my own stupidity. How did I think I could carry this off? I glance around the room, looking for something—anything—that might serve as a distraction. Anything to keep from looking at him. Not that it truly matters because I can feel the weight of his gaze anyway. Grave and brooding, it pushes down on my shoulders as I realise I’m not really adrift. I might feel lost, but I’m not because I’m anchored to the spot by his attention in a thoroughly unpleasant way.
“Oh, but you haven’t got a drink!” Isla suddenly announces, turning from her children. “What sort of gentlemen do you call yourselves?” she playfully chastises. “You know better than that,” she adds in a jolly tone, her gaze sliding to Alexander. “A gentleman’s purpose is to see to a lady’s needs. Drinking needs,” she adds in a suddenly panicked expression.
“I think you’ll find that’s Griffin’s job,” the duke’s deep voice rumbles, though he sounds as though he doesn’t care either way.
Isla’s gaze moves to Griffin, doubling back as she realises I’m still standing where he left me. Where Alexander’s gaze has cemented me.
Like a damn mannequin.
“Griffin, get Holly a drink, would you?” She takes my arm and leads me to the sofa opposite Alexander.
“What’s your poison, Hol?” Griffin calls across the room.
I lick my lips as I refuse to look at my poison of choice.
I’ve given up things that are bad for me.
“Let’s have martinis,” Isla announces, answering the question on my behalf, possibly intuiting my pattern of thought.
Martinis are made and served by the butler, Mr McCain, who materialises in the room like magic. He avoids my gaze as he proffers me my drink from a silver tray. The first one goes down too quickly to notice the taste, but the second is crisp and deliciously dry. The boys are engrossed in their respective iPads and no help to the stilted conversation as they are completely oblivious to the pre-volcanic atmosphere. Meanwhile, Isla flaps around the room like a nervous bird. At least until Mr McCain announces dinner.
This is . . . kind of unexpectedly fancy. The family dining room is set as though to accommodate an intimate dinner party, not a family dinner. A flower arrangement sits at the centre of the dining table covered with white linens. Candles are lit, and the lamplight is low.
I know the family doesn’t dine like this every evening. Dougal cooks when he’s here, sure, but Mr McCain doesn’t stand on ceremony and serve. Seriously, I’ve eaten with Isla and the kids at the kitchen table on nights when everyone was expected to load their own plate into the dishwasher afterwards.
Griffin holds out my chair, Hugh valiantly beating his uncle to do the same for his mother before the meal begins. And still, Mr McCain keeps his gaze from mine as the first course is served. He’s disproving, I guess. I’m sure it won’t be long until the rest of the staff hear how I’m with Griffin now. They’ll hate me, I’m sure, and not just because he doesn’t have much of a fanbase at Kilblair. But they’d no doubt hate me more if Alexander had gotten his way.